


An Unorthodox Mount

by Saentorine



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works, The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Lord of the Rings (Movies), The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Backstory, Canon - Movie, Deer, Dramatic Irony, Elves, Father-Son Relationship, Foreshadowing, Gen, Last Alliance, Second Age, Sindar, The Noldor, Wood Elves, Young Thranduil, in-universe politics, this was supposed to be silly and then feels kinda happened
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-26
Updated: 2015-07-26
Packaged: 2018-04-11 07:11:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,069
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4426151
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saentorine/pseuds/Saentorine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Why won't Thranduil just ride a horse like everyone else?-- Oropher wonders when they are roused from their woodland hideaway to join forces with distant allies to face an even greater Enemy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	An Unorthodox Mount

**Author's Note:**

> This started out as a simple amused observation about the weird mounts (or lack thereof) some of the Elves ride in the film adaptations . . . and then, because apparently everything I touch turns to sad, ended up getting kind of feels-y about Oropher and Thranduil's relationship and Second Age politics. Apologies if the tone of this can't make up its mind; I guess that's what I get for trying to make anything funny out of the Last Alliance of Elves and Men . . .

Alas that they must go to war again. Oropher thought the last great war of the First Age would be the last war he would have to face in his long life, but when Gil-Galad comes to his halls, tall and proud with his great spear Aeglos even taller, he defers to him and commits his armies to his Alliance. Even deep in the thick of the great Greenwood, Oropher has sensed the gathering forces of the Enemy to the south and east, threatening all those who yet reside East of the sea. There is little short of the destruction of the world that would drive him to leave the wood to commit his people to the death and destruction of total war, but that is exactly the prospect they face.

However, one would think they were bound for a ball by the way his son preens and primps in preparation for leading their troops out of the Greenwood. Thranduil has already thrown a small strop at his father after being brought in to meet Gil-Galad upon return from a hunt without proper “warning” that he might change into more princely garb. Oropher’s unsympathetic response-- an unconcerned eye-roll and the assertion that a Noldor lord would consider them backwater no matter what they wore-- did not improve things, so in apology he is patient this time as his son dresses himself to his own standards.

Oropher’s primary intention in bringing their family to the solitude of the woodlands in the first place was to avoid the politics and hierarchy of Elves residing both in Arda and Aman. He hid his young son deep in the thick of the forest to supply him a peaceful life true to the wholesome simplicity of the earth-loving Eldar before the call of the Valar sundered them into such diverse factions-- away from the oaths and kinslaying and greed of their distant kin returned from the West. He has already had to uproot them thrice to move further out of reach of the Noldor in Eregion and the Dwarves of Moria. All of this effort to undo the influence of Elven civilization, and yet even in their rustic halls Thranduil styles himself like the second coming of Elu Thingol. Oropher worries that his son’s avarice and pride will be his undoing; for one who so clearly remembers the magnificence and extravagance of their time in Doriath, it is a marvel how easily he seems to have forgotten the betrayal, murder, and flames that ended it.

For the journey Oropher has clothed himself begrudgingly in stiff silver brocade and crown; his subjects know him as their king no matter what he wears and after centuries in the woodland he prefers the comfort of soft doeskin in the colors of the forest, but as a king in the presence of other kings he must make a certain appearance. When he emerges to fetch his horse, however, he is not surprised to see that Thranduil looks perfectly at ease in lush robes and diadem.

He is, however, surprised that he is mounted on an elk.

“No,” says Oropher immediately. “Fetch a horse. You are not riding into Imladris astride a wild elk.”

Thranduil’s eyes flash with deep insult as his back stiffens and he clutches his reins tighter. “He is not _wild_ , _ada_.”

“He is not an animal built for war.” Oropher has long humored Thranduil’s taming of one of these great beasts that roam the Greenwood, glad to see his son so engaged with a being so undeniably rustic, a fitting symbol for their home in the woodland-- but now wonders if he shouldn’t pity the poor creature for his son’s ridiculous ministrations.

Thranduil lifts his dark brows in provocation. “Would you care for me to demonstrate how fit he is for war? I have not spent the past several _decades_ drilling with him for nothing.”

“We will be riding across plains and mountains. We will be at battle in open country, amidst vast ranks of foreign soldiers. We will require steeds of agility in a large company.” 

“We are confronting one of the greatest dark powers to ever trouble the East,” Thranduil retorts. “We need raw _power_ as well as agility.” He pats the smooth chestnut hair of his steed, who seems to bristle with pride at this compliment. “And you need not question his endurance; I have ridden him up mountains and down lakeside, and he has never tired.”

“Thranduil, this is not about vanity or intimidation; an elk is simply not a steed befitting this type of war.”

“You speak to _me_ of vanity, yet you would have me ride a horse unfamiliar to me simply to blend in better with the Noldor?”

It is lucky his son towers over him on his elk, or Oropher would have smacked him on the mouth for that. At least he knows his son is more sensitive to his reticence in this alliance than he thought. “I would have you ride what would keep you safest in battle. You are of no use to the Alliance, your kingdom, myself, nor the _Noldor_ if you are tossed from his back.”

“We ride higher than King Thingol stood,” Thranduil asserts, “and we can overpower six footsoldiers at once. What is safer than that? You would prefer to have me ride a steed I have _not_ broken in with such diligence?”

Oropher grumbles low in his throat. “You are certain you can manage him better than a horse?”

Thranduil narrows his eyes and fixes on him a pout. “Yes.”

Curse him and his stubbornness, but once again Oropher cannot deny his son-- not when they are riding into a battle that may stretch on for years. Not when he is tearing apart his son’s young happy family by parting him from his new wife, her belly yet barren of child. Not when he is subjecting his son to war for the first time as an adult elf and soldier, and it is clear from his priorities in this venture how naïve he is to its horrors. Oropher’s heart aches that he must pluck him from the safety of the woods in the first place; it is only because their task is so dire that it could mean the death of all if he does not contribute all he can, including the commitment of his own son. This war could easily mean his death; if the elk will make him happy, will keep his spirits up, and inspire him to fight for his home, he will allow it.

The Alliance has already swept south and gathered a sizable force from Lórinand, headed by Amdír who like Oropher chose to remove his folk to the quietude of the forest in the wake of the dissolution of Beleriand. For a time they ride together, neither particularly keen on the company of their Noldor leaders who do not seem particular keen on _them_ aside from the assurance they will follow their Alliance. Thranduil and Amdír's son Amroth are like enough in age that when Amroth marks Thranduil as married, he asks about his bride with wistful envy. Thranduil tells of her beauty and laughter, their adventures exploring the depths of the forest and its mountains and rivers, their plans for children when he returns. Oropher’s heart aches to hear how his voice grows softer as he finally seems to realize that said return is not assured, that their recent goodbye may be their last.

“I love a woodland maid, but she will not have a Sindar husband,” Amroth sighs. “She says that the coming of the Western Elves has ruined the lands of her people and that where we go, war and destruction must always follow.”

“It seems she is not mistaken in that,” Oropher replies with a humorless smile as they follow the banners of Gil-Gilad westward.

Imladris is overflowing with Elves by the time they arrive. The apartments of the last homely house are reserved for Elrond's kin and guests of the highest honor: Gil-Gilad who has led them there, Galadriel of Eragion and her husband Celeborn, and the leaders of the Men who fight amongst them, the last survivors of fallen Numenor who are distant kindred of Elrond. As they approach the estate Thranduil and Amroth gape at the various sizes and shapes of the Men and Dwarves who have gathered to join the Alliance, giggling and making unkind comments in the Silvan dialect they presume none of them know, until a stern glance and cleared throat from Amdír has them facing forward in silence and dignity again.

The delegation of the Greenwood stakes their camp at some distance from the residence in the thick of the forest-- which in truth most of them prefer, free to hunt their own game and sleep beneath the stars and whispering trees rather than sup and sleep beneath the stone arches of the estate. When night falls they light bonfires, break open the casks of wine they would not leave behind in the Greenwood, and revel, perfectly at home out of the disdainful view of their distant kin that hold themselves in such higher regard than the simple woodland folk. 

However, although he does not fail to enjoy his own generous portions of wine night after night in his father’s tent, Thranduil is itching to leave the forest and see the grandness of the architecture of Imladris, as well as the fashions and manners of the foreign Elves his kin have been parted from for two millennia. When Oropher is summoned to the first gathering of generals, no sooner does he give his son permission to accompany him than Thranduil disappears and reappears, tall and proud on his favored mount.

“ _No_ ,” Oropher insists again.

“But _ada_ ,” Thranduil protests. “It is too far to walk from here! Would you have me ride on the back of _your_ horse like an elfling when I am meant to be your second in command?”

“An appointment I am beginning to regret,” Oropher mutters with a quirk of his eyebrow, thinking that his son is certainly _behaving_ as if he were still an elfling. 

But Thranduil has his way and brings up the rear of the small woodland coterie including Amdír and Amroth. The elk struggles to make his way as they near the halls and courtyards of Imladris, as the trees become planted in neat rows that cannot be disturbed rather than wild growth, and stone archways barely large enough to allow his passage. His antlers span more than the width of the gates and he sputters and moans as Thranduil tries to coax him through while remaining mounted. His vast horns catch and snap an intricate carving within an arch and several elegant tiles of the walkway crack under the concentrated weight of his hooves as they finally pass the gate. By now the entire gathering has been alerted to their arrival; Elrond closes his eyes in exasperation and his closest attendant looks horrified nearly to tears. One of the younger Men dares laugh, and Thranduil casts upon him a glare that could melt stone.

“He is mortal; he’ll be _dead_ before you forget the memory,” Amroth whispers to him in consolation. But his consolation does not stop the low murmur of voices from all around them.

“And the wood elves from the Greenwood have arrived . . . “

“But this one is full Sinda, no? They truly have gone native.”

“More dangerous, less wise indeed.”

“I suppose it’s to be expected in the fastness of Rhovanion; we saw some of Durin’s folk came in riding wild pigs.”

Thranduil almost draws his sword at that-- to be compared to _Dwarves_!-- but Oropher quickly stops him with a hand against his wrist, though this requires him to reach awkwardly upward from his own mount. He ignores what he thinks is another snigger from the young Man.

Thranduil’s graceful dismount does not go as intended, and he slinks quietly into his seat beside his father. Elrond’s beleaguered attendant removes the elk from the courtyard and out to a fountain to drink as the meeting begins. 

Although Oropher has worried that his son, green as he is in diplomacy with foreign nations, will continue to make a fool of himself, he is impressed with his poise during their council. He does not speak more than his station warrants, but when Oropher takes his turn to speak he politely adds details as warranted, small notes about their force that his father has overlooked, sitting proudly and confidently in his position as his father’s second-in-command.

However, his entrance has clearly not been forgotten and each time he speaks, Oropher marks bemusement and derision on the faces of many listening, and gradually humiliation transforms into defensive anger on his son’s behalf. These lords and generals have called them out of their blissful peace only to leer upon them with disdain? But was it not the Noldor who had dealings with Morgorth that fueled his power and brought his wrath to their world? Was it not the Men who failed to hold against Sauron in their now (deservingly) devastated island home? Which of them should care what his son rides so long as they have committed the largest force they can muster-- and it is a large force, for the wood elves remain populous in the East-- to their cause? He is glad when they return to their camp at sunset, though Thranduil rides a little less proudly on his elk.

Their preparations for war take time, but fly quickly by the reckoning of the Elves and in their haste to rise against the Enemy before he strikes first. They meet to discuss the preparations their spies have noted amongst Sauron’s ranks to the East. They forge weaponry and train in the signals they will use to communicate with each other in such a great army. But when nothing is demanded of him by Gil-Galad-- or more typically his herald, for Gil-Galad does not deign to come so far out of Imladris proper-- Oropher is content to stay deep in the woods with his people. Thranduil and his elk drill with the troops until they heed him as readily as his own right hand, and Oropher begins to feel reassured that his son may yet make it home. 

Finally, the day comes that they are to march south to meet Sauron’s forces at the gate to his eastern territory. Oropher's army of wood elves, already camped in the southeast wood, march at the head and are the first to array themselves in view of the vast battle plain and the great gates to the East.

Gil-Gilad sends his herald Elrond to deliver his instructions and Oropher regards him with his own brand of disdain, wondering if the lord ingratiates himself to his general to compensate for his own checkered lineage, lest he be subject to the same treatment as Oropher's people.

Elrond passes on Gil-Gilad’s instructions clearly and efficiently: that Oropher and Amdír’s armies will be part of the very first assault, the virgin strike against the vastness of Sauron’s forces they do not yet fully comprehend.

“ _We_ are amongst the first to charge into Dagorlad?” Oropher repeats. “Why? Simply because we are closest now?”

But Elrond continues without answering his question. “Gil-Gilad will give the command. At his signal you will charge the gates and lead our assault upon Mordor.”

Thranduil turns to his father with a gleam of triumph in his eyes, as if this has validated everything. To his mind, it is an honor that the first thing Sauron and his armies will see of the great force that has risen in Arda to contest them will be the woodland elves-- and at their head, Thranduil’s noble steed.

However, Oropher does not give any response nor even meet his eyes, for triumph is the farthest thing from his mind. In his silence his blood boils with a fury that nearly makes him nauseous. Thranduil does not remember the final war of the first age well enough to see it and has kept to the ranks of their own army these years of preparation, but Oropher knows how his troops compares to the forces of the higher Elves. His soldiers have only rudimentary weapons compared to the craft of the Noldor and are accustomed to guerilla defense of woodland territory, yet untested in sprawling battles upon open plains. He has expected to lose many at the hands of the Enemy—but not at the command of his allies. What Gil-Galad has commanded them is sacrifice, _suicide_ ; he has appraised Oropher’s army and deemed them no more valuable than canon-fodder, a pile of bodies to be thrown at the Enemy to deplete and tire them before the “real” soldiers have their turn.

If they are to die, they will die on his own terms-- not by command of a Noldor that seems to hold even mortals in higher regard than Oropher’s people. Although he says nothing, his heart resolves that although he will not shy from the duty he has committed to, it will not be at Gil-Galad’s command.

He is silent for a long moment but when he speaks, it is to command his son. “You will keep to the rear, prepared to lead the second charge.”

“And you, Amroth, as well, from our own position,” Amdír adds, his eyes more openly showing how Elrond’s instructions have troubled him.

Amroth seems to understand, but Thranduil protests. “But _ada_ , I want to be at the head of the—“

“ _No!_ ” Oropher snaps, and this time even Thranduil in his impertinence falls silent. 

Oropher turns back to Elrond and there is undisguised venom in his voice. “Is there any other command from our general?”

“That is all,” Elrond assures him, though he cannot help but slide a bemused glance at Thranduil’s elk.

In imitation of his father’s scorn, Thranduil glowers proudly down on upon the herald who has come to them on foot. From his great height he can see the top of Elrond’s head and it is necessary for the young lord to look far upward to meet his gaze. “Does it upset you that I am riding an ancient creature of the woodland kingdom rather than a mere horse?”

However, Elrond is not intimidated. “Not at all,” he shrugs. "Personally, I was planning to walk.”

**Author's Note:**

> Seriously though at the beginning of _Fellowship of the Ring_ film Elrond just _walks_ into freaking Dagorlad? Without even so much as a helmet? Bruh.


End file.
